


Drunk on 3 AM

by HomebodyNobody



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College AU, Cuddling, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 02:21:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8269013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HomebodyNobody/pseuds/HomebodyNobody
Summary: Bellamy and Clarke go to college together and sometimes Bellamy just a needs a cuddle





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is by far the shortest and the shittiest fic I've ever written, but I'm trying to get back into posting stuff, so. Let me know what you think!

Clarke’s alarm clock is mocking her. It sits on her desk with its impertinent little red numbers, displaying the time like it  _ knows _ she has to be up in five hours if she wants to finish her problem set  _ and  _ get to class on time, and it doesn’t give a shit about how tired she’s gonna be. Sick of glaring at it, she rolls over to face the wall. The darkness in the room feels almost oppressive, pushing down on her temples, squishing all the information in her brain into a tiny, anxious black ball. Clarke huffs and smashes her face into the pillow, squeezing her eyes shut. Who decided Pre-Med was a feasible major? Was that really her?

“Fine,” she grumbles, rolling over. “Might as well get something done.” She swings her legs over the edge of the bed and grabs her O-chem problem set off her desk, careful not to disturb Raven, who’s snoring under three comforters. Carefully, she tiptoes over the clothes-strewn floor and out the door, closing it quietly behind her. There’s no one else in the hall, but she can see lights under the doors. The common room is lit, but empty, and she sighs in relief, plopping down on the lumpy blue couch. 

“AAAAAUGH!” The couch screams. 

“GAAHH!” Clarke screams back, jumping up, papers scattering across the floor. 

A ruffled black head of hair pops up from beneath the ratty blue blanket, and Clarke finally notices the computer and notes piled on the floor. “What the HELL?” The head asks, glaring at her with dark brown eyes. 

“Bellamy?” She says, a hand pressed to her heart. 

He sits up and stretches, his gray t-shirt pulling tight over his chest. “Clarke?” He checks his watch. “It’s 3 AM, what are you doing in here?” 

She scoops up her notebook and holds it up. “O-chem.” Unfortunately, late-night study sessions were pretty regular for the both of them, and for the last few months, they’d spent the wee hours sharing candy over ink-stained pages and textbook paragraphs. 

Bellamy smiles and shakes his head, nodding to his textbook on the floor. “World religion. I must have fallen asleep.” 

She crosses her arms over her chest, hugging the notebook, “Should I leave?” She’s hoping he says no. Her life’s been hell lately -- she’s drowning in homework and stress, she’s barely on speaking terms with her mother, and then she managed to go on a date with her roommate’s boyfriend, something they agreed not to ever speak of again but still weighs heavy between the two of them. Bellamy appearing was almost like a dream. He walked into the common room one night around midnight, while she was sobbing quietly into her hands, articles on Dostoevsky spread out across the floor. He’d paused in the doorway before asking quietly if she needed help. At her assent, he laid his lanky frame down across the ugly carpeting and picked up her assignment with a tired grin. With his help, she’d finished it in an hour, and then helped him get through his calculus homework with an equal amount of patience. The next night, he’d brought her a cherry Coke and a bag of M&Ms, and it was the start of a beautiful friendship. 

Swinging his legs off the couch, Bellamy rearranges the blanket in his lap and pats the cushion next to him. “Nah, sit down. This is due tomorrow.” 

Clarke smiles and sits down, pushing her bare toes underneath Bellamy’s legs and leans against the arm of the couch. He pats her on the knee absentmindedly and settles down into the cushions, pulling his computer into his lap. Clarke leans her head on her hand and traces her eyes over his profile. His hair is a mess from the static-y pillow, there’s an imprint from the creases in the fabric on his cheek, and his glasses are slipping down his nose. It’s kind of adorable. Bellamy looks back up at her, brows furrowed. “What?” 

 

Ducking her head, Clarke shuffles her notebook in her lap. “Nothing. Nothing at all.” 

She doesn’t see him smile as he goes back to his paper. “Whatever.” They work in silence for another hour, Clarke chewing at her nails and at the end of her pencil, Bellamy’s hair getting steadily messier as he runs his hands through it over and over. Eventually, his head drops on to her knee and he sighs laboriously. “I have written some shitty essays,” he says, closing his laptop and sliding it onto the old battered trunk that doubled as a coffee table, “But that was by far the shittiest.” Clarke laughs and wiggles her toes underneath his leg, making him squirm. Grimacing, he swats at her shins. “Seriously,” he groans, pushing his forehead against her knee, “are you almost done or what?” 

She wasn’t, but she closed her notebook and dropped it on the floor. “Basically,” she says, leaning against the back of the sofa. 

Shifting towards her, he runs his hands up the back of her calves. She shivers, and he hides his smirk in the inside of her knee. “Can we just go to sleep now?” He asks, his voice low and gravelly and sending vibrations into her bones. 

“Uh --” she stammers, frozen. 

“Clarke, honestly,” he says, picking his head up and locking his dark eyes on to hers, “I’m exhausted, I just wrote a four thousand-word essay, and I really would like a nap.” 

She still doesn’t move. “With… me?” she squeaks.

“Well,” he replies, shit-eating grin plastered across his face, “yeah.” 

This is a bad call. Clarke knows this is a bad call. She barely knows anything about him, except that he’s smart and handsome and really good at analyzing Russian literature. But it’s nearly 5 AM, and his thumbs are still rubbing back and forth over the back of her legs, and he leans a little closer and she catches a whiff of something woodsy and distinctly male and really, really nice, so the only thing that comes out of her mouth is “okay?” 

“Awesome,” he sighs, falling over in the small space between Clarke and the back of the couch. The rest of his sentence is muffled; “because I’m fuckin exhausted.” She maneuvers herself til they’re both stretched out on the couch, Bellamy’s chest pressed up against her back, his arm heavy over her waist. She’s grateful for his all-encompassing warmth, because all she’s wearing is a camisole and flannel panda-print pajama pants. He falls asleep instantly, his breathing steady against the back of her neck, his hand relaxed flat against her stomach. Her eyes prickle as she stares at the dimly-lit room, and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to fall asleep, but the whir of the air-conditioner and Bellamy’s heartbeat, slow and steady against her back, melts the world around her into peaceful darkness. 


End file.
